I've been quietly praying for months that I would be able to handle both boys going to practice and the schedule that entails. Once I found out that all three of the littlest one's practices were on the same nights as three of the four of the biggest kids' practices, I'd been praying even harder.
I've been trying to be patient, knowing that things would work themselves out. The first week, Sarge was able to help. Tomorrow morning was going to be my first test - Sarge was to be at work and the boys were practicing across town from one another, both ending at the same time. I had to be in two places at once.
So, this evening, I tucked my pride between my legs and asked one of the other moms who lives near us to help - to drop the oldest one at the littest one's practice field when they were done, which was on her way home. She so very graciously said that of course she would help, and of course she wouldn't mind. I let the coach know that I would be leaving the oldest in the morning, and that I would leave him my cell phone, and not to panic if the police show up to watch practice.
But then. But then. The children were off playing on the playground together. Until the middle one ran up to me saying that the littlest was hurt and needed me. I ran.
My heart perked up a little when I saw him standing up - I could see the back of his head, and thought, "that little stinker isn't even crying and I ran all the way over here!" But no, I got to him - he was covered in dirt and was holding his arm. HIS ARM.
He wouldn't move it. I carried him over to where the grownups were and got him a juice box to chill his little arm. He refused a cookie. We decided that we needed to get him an xray. Because we all know there's something wrong with that kid if he doesn't want a cookie.
So we did. And it's broken. His left arm. His throwing arm. His writing arm. School starts in a week. But I don't have to be in two places in the morning. Even though I'd rather try to be than to have another broken arm on that baby.